


Ships That Pass in the Night

by toujours_nigel



Category: Maurice - Forster, The Charioteer - Renault
Genre: Gen, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is rampantly an exercise in 'what-if': What if Maurice Hall was the captain of the trawler where Lanyon worked summers, his last year(s) of school?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ships That Pass in the Night

Lanyon." Both boys turn, and the mate's eyes pass sightlessly over both, as though, bundled against the North Sea, they are like as twins. "Captain wants you."

"Alright, Edwards," he assures, waits for the green eyes to rest on his face. "I'll be along in a moment."

"You're in for it now," Peter grins, careless and hard, "been slacking off, 'ave you?"

"Nothing of the sort." It would, in any case, be repugnant to give to anything—and this one of his own choosing, and won at some cost—less than the full measure of his powers. And then, Peter's smile turns his eyes bright, and his mocking tongue softens in praise. "Likely he wants to commend my efficience."

"You'll be the first, then. Hard man, him."

"Only to slackers like you, Thompson," he laughs, and follows Edwards upon the second, impatient, "Lanyon", still secure in the knowledge of tasks accomplished to the best of an ability as yet pushed nowhere near its limits.

When the captain's greying head stays bent over his papers after he'd entered the room, and no acknowledgment beyond an "Enter" proves forthcoming, he stamps neatly—no sense leaving crumbs—on the fear coiling low in his belly. Captain Hall has better things to do. And the impatience likely was Edwards', anyway. "Sir?"

"Lanyon, come in, come in." _There we are._ He comes to a stand before the desk, taking a moment to gauge the potential for a forthcoming reprimand, but the captain's eyes look guileless. "Sit, don't stand on formality around me, I forget courtesy as soon as we leave shore. Sit down, Lanyon." He sits down, pushes forward to lean both elbows on the captain's desk. _Captain Hall in fine fettle, soon there'll be ramblings about 'in '24, when I was on the Lucille...'._ "This is your second trip with us, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you've liked it?"

"Reasonably well," he says, and allows himself a smile. He fully plans to do this (or something very like it) all his summers till he can come permanantly to the sea.

"Good," Hall says. "Good to know. Wouldn't do to have you discontent. Lanyon." His habitual frown deepens. "Thompson looks up to you."

"Good God, sir, don't blame him on me." He waits for the laughter, but Captain Hall simply continues fixing him with a solid gaze—_nothing piercing about it, like the regard of a sledgehammer_—though he knows he has the tone down pat, not a tremor in his voice.

"You're a public school boy, Lanyon."

"Prefect now, sir." He forces his shoulders back, spine straight, looks at the captain, looks away under the strength of the stare.

"So you're…" the big brown hands clasp each other, move away, come unconsciously together like partners in a dance. _Had Captain Hall attended them, a decade ago, the dances in relief of the War being over?_ "You're familiar with this sort of thing."

"Annoying fifteen year olds?" He essays another smile, reining it in to avoid seeming too charming. Wouldn't do to be thought an utter nancy. "I've had occasion to encounter a few." _And this, really, is quite the worst moment for you to pop up, Odell._

"Lanyon." The hands still. "It's natural for younger boys to… entertain this sort of… weakness, at times." _At least he's not beating about the bush with it, like Jeepers._ "I think too well of you to believe you'll abuse that."

"Are you charging me with corrupting Thompson," he says, shocked to get it out at a flat monotone. "Sir?"

"The opposite, I should think." Captain Hall smiles, slow and impossibly indulgent, and his chest tightens like his ribs are constricting. "I'm commending your remarkable restraint."

"Remarkable, sir?" _Perhaps this is a warning to not be too hard on Peter, who is, after all, devoid of the advantages of good breeding and a public school education, and must blunder along like the sad little heathen he is. Perhaps._ "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

Captain Hall knits his brows, sighs. "Lanyon, I'd take it kindly if you didn't sodomise the boy in direct defiance to what I've just said. Take the compliment and stick to it, man."

He can feel the blood rushing away from his skin, leaving his fingertips numb. "Sir." _Breathe_.

"I dislike beating around the bush," Hall barks—_a lie, man rambles on and on_—and then his eyes turn pitiful. "Lanyon." He draws himself up. "That was unnecessarily harsh. But I thought it best to have it spoken, at least between us."

"I wasn't aware of any special favour, sir."

"I have a friend," Captain Hall says, and leans back and subtly against his chair to watch him.

"It's always good to have friends, sir." _Watch him, he's got no reason to let you off, this doesn't rebound on him. Nobody will believe you, your word against his._

"Drop it, Lanyon."

"Sir."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"No, sir." _Is that it? He's spilled his secret, and now he'll let me off? Like Hell._

"I… understand that it must be difficult," Captain Hall says, eyes earnest, one hand reaching across the desk. _Why, sir, are you propositioning me? You'll keep my secret if I stem your loneliness? Why, sir, what would your friend say?_

"I keep busy," he offers, and moves the chair back to stand. "Sir, I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."

"I'm sorry," Hall says, runs his hands through his thick mane of hair, graying from the temples. _Twenty years ago, he must have been personable_. "I find I am incapable of speaking on this without catastrophe,' he says, offers up a small, rueful smile aimed at someone not him. "It has always been this way."

"Sir." _You're not quite out of it, don't pity him. He has a friend._ "If you'll allow me…"

"Of course. This stays between us." _Are you offering reassurance or asking for it, sir?_

"Not a word, sir." He smiles quickly, sword-bright, some pity slipping out from beneath his edict against it. "And I'll stomp on Thompson for you, keep him out from under your feet." _Keep him to myself, and away from you, friends notwithstanding._

"Greatly obliged, Lanyon. Keep him out of my tea and loot, if that doesn't strain you." They lock eyes like new adversaries remembering their liking for each other.

He nods, and slips out into salt air, and Peter's hovering, anxious face. "You got reamed out."

"I got told," he temporises, taking in Peter's bright eyes and the shock of red hair, "to keep you in line."


End file.
